Goodbye to You

  GOODBYE TO YOU

  A.J. Matthews

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2014 by A.J. Matthews

  GOODBYE TO YOU by A.J. Matthews

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Swoon Romance. Swoon Romance and its related logo are registered trademarks of Georgia McBride Media Group, LLC.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Published by Swoon Romance

  Cover designed by Anita B. Carroll

  Cover Copyright © Swoon Romance

  This book is dedicated to all of the brave, beautiful warriors who’ve fought the good fight against breast cancer. No matter the outcome, you are the true heroes, and I respect your strength and courage more than mere words can express.

  To Hollywood, Beanie, and my (not so) little B. You are the reasons I get up every morning, and the reasons I survive every day.

  And to my husband Jay. Thank you for believing in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. Every love story I write is because we have written an extraordinary love story of our own.

  GOODBYE TO YOU

  A.J. Matthews

  Chapter 1

  Thea

  I love my boobs.

  From the way the sultry-eyed, dark-haired, “I wonder if he’s a J. Crew model” god is staring at them tonight from the other side of the large wood and brass-railed bar, I think he likes them too.

  Maybe more than I do.

  “Hey, Thea, we started with your name.” My friend Bennie slurs a little, which is weird because we just started drinking tonight.

  Maybe she’s still hung over from last night.

  She slides a shot of clear liquid down the bar, and the bartender slips a salt shaker and a plate of limes in front of Bennie.

  Tequila. A drink that makes me do wicked things I otherwise wouldn’t consider.

  J. Crew is inspiring some hot-and-heavy fantasies that exclude clothing but include lots of delicious, sweaty skin. A couple more drinks and this could be J. Crew’s lucky night.

  A few beers every other week is more my speed, so this trip is testing my limits. At five foot three inches tall and weighing in at 130 pounds, my body is not built for heavy drinking.

  I’m done with this crap after tonight. Well, maybe not tonight. But as soon as the “Farewell to the Boobies” tour concludes.

  I’m in Key West with my best friends Bennie and Felicia—Leesh—with the sole purpose of having one last fling with a hot guy before I get a preventative mastectomy.

  A strong family history of breast cancer compelled me to get genetic testing. I’m positive for the BRCA1 mutation, which means I have a sixty to eighty percent chance of breast cancer. After months of deliberating, I decided to kick cancer in the ass, hence my upcoming surgery.

  But enough of that. I’m here to have fun.

  Following Bennie and Leesh’s lead, I sprinkle salt on the back of my hand, lick it, and then gulp down the clear liquid fire.

  I suck on the lime, my lips puckering at its sour bite. The bartender clears the empties, and Bennie leans in and orders the next shot. Within minutes, the bartender returns with the next round.

  The A/C kicks on, blasting down icy air and blowing some loose blond curls into my face.

  I’m going to miss my boobs. I’m getting reconstructive surgery, but they’ll never be the same glorious girls I have now.

  Might as well have fun with them while I still can.

  I pick up the “alphabet” shooter sitting on the slick bar in front of me. The orange drink could warm me up.

  J. Crew’s staring again, so I tip my glass in his direction and then tip my head back and down the contents in a single swallow.

  I cough, and my eyes water. Not the sexiest thing I’ve ever done.

  What the hell was that?

  “Wooooo!” Bennie seems unaffected by the spicy drink.

  Our shot glasses hit the table with a thud.

  The F shooter.

  Which could stand for “fuuuuuuuck.” I’m pretty sure, though, the hellish concoction was a fireball. Whoever came up with the idea of using spicy Tabasco sauce in an alcoholic drink should be forced to drink a gallon of the stuff, straight.

  I wipe my eyes and look across the darkened room. J. Crew’s gone.

  I sigh with relief. Maybe he missed my performance.

  “So which one of these hotties are you gonna tap tonight? So far you’ve failed on your mission for one last hook-up before…” Bennie makes a slashing sound with her mouth as she motions downward across her chest with her hands.

  “Stay classy, B.”

  She sings a made-up song about getting lucky and shakes her booty in time to a beat in her head. I roll my eyes. The girl is crazy, but she makes me laugh.

  “Excuse me, ladies.” My voice drips with sarcasm for my most un-ladylike friends. “I need to run to the loo.”

  Leesh rolls her eyes at me.

  I reach up and squeeze her shoulder. “Sorry, sweetie.”

  I’d picked up so many phrases from her British ex, Dev, that sometimes the words just roll off my tongue. She misses him since his overseas move and their subsequent break-up. I need to do a better job of watching what I say.

  I get up and walk to the back of the bar, the soles of my flip-flops crunching the peanut shells underfoot in time with the young singer scratching out a classic rock song on his beat-up acoustic guitar.

  He’s playing some terrific music; it’s an acoustic mix of rock, pop, and country, the latter of which I love since I am Georgia-born and Carolina-raised, fed a steady diet of old-school country by my granny.

  I check my phone for any messages from home. My sister, Jen, texted earlier in the day that she’s feeling better from the unpleasant side effects of the chemo, but I think she’s exaggerating because she wanted me to take a break from helping out with my niece and nephew. I skipped the spring semester of school to help Jen through her treatment, missing out on the student teaching required to secure my license. Jen feels guilty, but that’s what family does. Take care of each other.

  “Hot twenty-two year olds don’t play nursemaid to sick sisters all summer long. They go on vacation for a couple weeks to drink and flirt with cute boys.”

  I tried to argue with Jen, but she silenced me with her hand before going into the utility closet and returning with a roll of zebra-striped duct tape, which she threatened to use on my mouth if I protested again. If she’d had the strength, I think she would have pushed me onto the plane herself. Instead, she made Bennie and Leesh promise they would get me out of the house and to the airport for this vacation.

  I’m going back to school in the spring after my mastectomy, and I already have the reconstruction scheduled around spring break.

  I touch up my lip gloss and run a brush through my wild curls while looking in the bathroom mirror. Normally I don’t care this much about my appearance, but since I spotted him, I want to look nice just in case.

  I exit the bathroom humming “Cheeseburger in Paradise.” A bacon and cheese-smothered patty would be tasty right now.

  There’s J. Crew. Leaning against the wall, staring right at me. His arms are crossed, the sleeves of his navy blue polo snug around his defined biceps. His skin is
not-quite-fair but not-too-tan. A hint of sunblock and salt clings to him.

  He is beautiful.

  He smiles, revealing the whitest, straightest teeth I think I’ve ever seen, and my heart flips like Gabby Douglas on the vault.

  Except my heart doesn’t nail the landing. Instead, it sinks to the pit of my stomach and flops around like a fish on the deck of a boat.

  “H-hey.” J. Crew’s stutter is cute.

  “Cute” always annoys me.

  Not in this case.

  This tiny imperfection makes him even hotter.

  An older woman brushes by me, knocking into my shoulder as she utters a brusque “excuse me.” I realize I’ve been standing motionless and mute in the doorway of the women’s room.

  Seriously, Thea? Get a grip.

  I square my shoulders and stand up straight. J. Crew’s eyes drop. And pop.

  My now-perfect posture makes my big, firm boobs stick out, and in this tank top, they’re hard to miss.

  “Hi,” I manage to spit out after I unstick my tongue from the dry roof of my mouth.

  He lifts his gaze back to mine, the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes dancing, as though he’s a tad embarrassed at being caught staring, but not at all sorry for looking. It’s an expression I’m familiar with.

  “Uh, sorry to break up this little love-fest you two, but can I get through?” The bartender with the adorable lilting accent is trying to get through the hall from the men’s room.

  I take a couple steps back, and J. Crew hitches his thumb at the door the bartender had walked out of. “Um, so I gotta go…”

  I mentally face-palm myself.

  He hadn’t come for me. He’d been waiting to get into the bathroom, which is probably a single-stall like the ladies’ room.

  Duh.

  But good. Because a guy following you to a public bathroom in a bar is a teensy-bit strange.

  Still, I’m disappointed. I thought J. Crew and I had a connection that compelled him to do something unconventional, even though others might find it strange.

  Turns out he just had to pee.

  ***

  Shay

  Stunning.

  Not drop-dead, super-model gorgeous, but I can’t stop staring at her.

  Her eyes are set a little close together. One eyebrow is quirked up at me, questioning.

  Her nose is straight and fits her face well. Her crooked grin is set on a pair of soft-looking, full lips the color of cherries.

  I wonder if they taste like cherries, too.

  I’d settle for cherry Chapstick.

  She smells a little like berries and it makes me hungry for more.

  Curly blond hair tumbles over one shoulder. My fingers itch to wind into the waves to find out if they’re as silky as they look.

  Of course, her most striking feature isn’t her skin or hair or lips: it’s her breasts.

  I’d say I’m a “boob man” even though the future medical student in me thinks the term “boobs” is crass.

  But I do love breasts, and hers are spectacular.

  “H-hey.” Great. She’ll be so impressed by the stutter.

  A woman pushes past the girl to get into the ladies’ room.

  The blond thrusts her shoulders back, and my gaze falls from her face to her chest again.

  They’re encased in a hot pink tank top crying for assistance in supporting the glorious burden.

  I want to volunteer, but don’t want to get slapped.

  I also can’t tear my eyes away.

  “Hi.” Her voice is high, the single word encouraging.

  My Uncle Paddy, the master of unfortunate timing, interrupts us, trying to squeeze between.

  We’re alone again, but geesh, my bladder is screaming.

  I hate to do this, but I say, “Um, so I gotta go…” and push the men’s room door open, leaving her standing in the hall.

  I finish up and lather my hands under the scalding water, hoping she’ll be there when I’m done, but that’s odd, right? For her to stand by the bathroom and wait for me?

  When I leave the bathroom, of course she’s gone, back with her friends at the bar, and Paddy’s taking another order from them.

  I do want to meet her, but I’m pathetic with strangers. Key West is my home, and is a relatively small community, despite the throngs of tourists who descend on the island year-round. College in Miami was a monumental challenge and I still hate speaking in groups, especially with strangers.

  My anxiety is even worse with girls. I’m twenty-two years old, for Pete’s sake, and should be over this fear, but I hate rejection. It all started when my mother left us—no, committed suicide when I was a kid—and the only long-term relationship I ever had grew out of a childhood friendship. She didn’t care that I mumbled in crowds or wanted to avoid large groups altogether whenever possible.

  That doesn’t work when trying to get the attention of someone new, and beautiful.

  I climb back onto the worn bar stool, the legs shifting under my weight. Uncle Paddy slides another beer across the scratched-up bar top, the foam sloshing over the side as I grab the frosty mug.

  “Hey Paddy, what’s up with the blond?” I tilt my head at the girl and her two friends, the tall redhead and the olive-skinned brunette. I’m teetering between wanting the three of them to be raging witches I should steer clear of, and wanting her to be the sweetest person Paddy’s met in the ten years he’s owned this place.

  “You mean the one with the…” Paddy cups his hands out—far out—in front of his chest.

  I nod, kinda weirded out by my forty-year-old uncle staring at college-aged girls’ boobs.

  “Fun bunch of girls, those three. Yeah, she’s a dear. Quieter than the other two.” A cackle of laughter erupts from the brunette. “Her name’s Thea, by the way. You wanna meet her?”

  I shake my head. “No, no, no.”

  I’m so not ready.

  Paddy turns a deaf ear to my pleas.

  “Hey, Thea girl, this guy over here, he’s my nephew,” Paddy bellows and points at me. Now the whole bar knows I want to meet this hot girl.

  My heart hammers in my ears. I bury my face, hot with embarrassment, in my arms.

  Too late.

  From our brief interlude outside the bathrooms, I’d recognize the scent anywhere. On Thea, the fragrance of raspberries is more intoxicating than any volume of beer.

  “Thea, my nephew Seamus.” A strangled groan escapes my lips. Paddy knows I hate my real name. “He’s a good boy, a smart one, but shy, so be gentle, love.”

  I lift my head a bit to glare at my well-meaning but socially inappropriate uncle, but he’s already off to fill a glass and stare at more boobs, I’m sure.

  Time to face the inevitable. I’ve got to talk to her now. I want to talk to her, but I never know what to say. At least this will be quick.

  I pop up from the bar and turn in her direction.

  I force a smile to my lips as I lean in and shove my right hand at her. “I’m Shay. Nice to meet you.”

  Nice to meet you?

  Smooth.

  Thea shrinks back and looks at me sideways, something shining in her bright blue eyes.

  Doubt? Does she smell the fear?

  She can do much better than me. I’m not ugly, and I try to keep myself in decent shape, but crap, I can’t shake this awkwardness.

  She gives my hand a firm shake before releasing it and sitting down next to me. My heart’s swimming in my chest, doing laps around my lungs, which can’t take in air fast enough.

  Passing out would be inappropriate and a tad embarrassing, so I slow my breathing, hoping the action will quiet my too-rapid heartbeat, as well.

  She leans in, her thick hair falling forward and brushing my forearm. I swallow over the solid lump in my throat.

  “Thea, but I guess ya know,” she titters, echoing my nervousness. She takes the shooter Paddy brings her. He sets the same in front of me.

  “I know this one,” Thea says, holding
the shot glass at eye-level and studying the contents. “The B shooter.”

  A perfectly-layered B-52. Paddy’s version starts with dark brown Kahlua, topped with amber amaretto, and creamy Bailey’s to finish.

  Sweet, but strong stuff.

  Not my thing, but Paddy must sense I need some powerful liquid courage. He’s encouraging me the way I’m always on my little brother Mac to take risks. He has high-functioning autism and bouts of depression, but I push him to face his fears, make a move on the girl he loves and jumpstart his music career. Now there he is, up on the stage tonight.

  Stop being so rigid, I told him. He listened about the performing.

  Being rigid is what got me into my first-choice med school. Being rigid, however, will not help me charm this lovely lass.

  Time to take my own advice.

  “To making new friends.” I raise my glass, and hers clinks mine.

  “Ta makin’ new friends.”

  The hint of an accent is so freaking cute.

  I pause, and she’s staring at me with those clear-sky eyes, waiting for me to drink.

  “And to taking chances,” I declare.

  Clink.

  “Takin’ chances. Fuckin’ awesome.”

  “Do you think this one will go down a little easier than the last one?”

  Her small fingers tap my forearm.

  Did an anvil just fall on my head?

  “That thing was awful. Tabasco sauce mixed with alcohol in a shot glass? No thank you.” Thea’s face flushes a pretty shade of pink, highlighting the freckles across the bridge of her nose.

  Her freckles are so sexy. I can’t stop looking at her.

  We drink.

  The shot burns a hole in my throat, but the sweetness is not unpleasant.

  It’s what Thea will taste like when I kiss her later.

  “Let’s get out of here.” It takes me a minute to realize I’m the one who said this.

  She’s nodding her head.

  Nodding her head yes, then we’re out. The sound of her friends’ whooping is silenced by the closing door as the humid July air blankets us.